


His Man Bashir

by Muriel_Perun



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Bets & Wagers, Explicit Sexual Content, Irony, M/M, Rape, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-13 01:25:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4502445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muriel_Perun/pseuds/Muriel_Perun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of "Our Man Bashir," Bashir and Garak have some very personal issues to settle. Bashir agrees to a risky game of "Truth or Dare" in the holosuite, but how will he feel if he loses, when his body is on the line?</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Man Bashir

**Author's Note:**

> This story first appeared in KR's zine "No Holds Barred" #19  
> Thanks to Anne Fairchild for the beta reading.
> 
> I've had two complaints that "dubious consent" wasn't a strong enough tag for this story. I have changed it to "rape." So don't read it if you're not up for at least some strong non-con.

Bashir adjusted his tie as he rushed up the holosuite stairs and through the door. The apartment was just as he had left it the day before, when he and Garak had walked out to greet their newly resuscitated colleagues.

Of course it was the same. Holoprograms were invariable. The furniture never collected dust; the rugs never looked dilapidated. And the dramas acted out here were supposed to fade away with the insubstantial fabric of this simulated Hong Kong apartment—a shimmer and a pop and you were left alone in the grid with a slightly giddy feeling in the pit of your stomach.

But what if you weren’t alone?

Bashir searched the apartment and found no one—no one, that is, except the simulations of two women: a chef and Mona Lovsit, busily going through the motions of preparing the luncheon he had ordered.

“Computer, how many life forms are present in this holosuite?” he asked, irrationally convinced against all evidence that Garak was already here.

“One life form present,” it droned.

As if to punctuate the mechanical words, the door slid open and Garak walked in, wearing an immaculate morning suit with an ascot of deep cranberry silk at the neck.

“Good morning, doctor,” he said cordially. “Did you sleep well?”

“Good afternoon, Garak,” Bashir replied, feeling an irrational need to contradict Garak’s greeting. “I slept very well indeed, thank you. How are you today?”

Garak touched his neck. “The plasticine skin is beginning to feel almost like my own, thank you, doctor. And, I must say, I’m so pleased you were able to sleep.”

Bashir winced. “I already apologized for shooting you, Garak. What do you want me to say? You don’t understand why I did it, so...”

“Oh, but I do, doctor, I do indeed. Expediency. A word I didn’t know was in your dictionary.”

“Duty,” Bashir said firmly. “Loyalty. How about those words? I couldn’t let my fellow officers die because you didn’t want to risk your precious hide.” Dammit, he was doing what he had sworn not to do—arguing with Garak about what had happened the day before. Bashir was sure they could never resolve it, and moreover, he was convinced that the incident proved their essential incompatibility. The crevasse it had opened in their hitherto cordial friendship was too disquieting to examine closely. If Garak seemed eager to face the void, Bashir desired nothing more than to cover it over and forget it.

“I’ll just see how our lunch is coming,” he said, turning abruptly. But Mona was already emerging with a large tray of food.

They sat at opposite sides of the table and Mona served them hot and sour soup in large, ornate bowls.

“Interesting,” Garak commented, looking after her.

“What?” Bashir asked defensively.

“Oh, nothing.” Garak cleared the air with a wave of his hand. “It’s just surprising, that’s all.”

Julian put down his spoon and planted his elbows on the table. “I know you want to tell me, Garak, so stop being so irritating and say it.”

Garak looked up innocently from his bowl. “I didn’t know my humble opinion could interest you so deeply,” he said, smiling at Bashir’s blush. “Very well, then. I was observing the type of woman you choose for your autoerotic fantasies. Although she possesses a myriad of talents that you described to me yesterday, she only gets to display them as your servant, not as an equal partner. In fact, her supposed intelligence seems secondary to her obvious physical attributes. Her breasts, for example—”

“Garak,” Bashir interrupted.

The Cardassian appeared surprised. “Yes?”

“Mind your own damn business, will you?”

“Oh, but I’m fascinated, doctor. Your program is quite revealing about your personal tastes. I’m so glad you invited me to share it.”

“You invited yourself,” Bashir said rudely, “and I should have kicked you out the moment I saw you.” Uncharacteristically, Garak seemed to find no fitting reply to this remark, and the only sound for several minutes was the muted clash of plasticine spoon against ceramic and the swish of swallowing.

Suddenly Garak spoke. “I hope there is no interruption in power today,” he said conversationally. “I would hate to have this bowl dematerialize and dump scalding soup into my lap.”

“Don’t you like to live dangerously, Garak?” Bashir knew the remark had been a mistake when he saw Garak’s eyes darken with anger and interest.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” he said quietly, putting down his spoon. “And that’s why I’m going to ask you for a rematch.”

“A what?” Bashir gaped at him.

“Surely that’s the term I’ve heard Mr. O’Brien use when he wants to play racquetball with you? I want another chance to beat you at your own game, but this time I want it to be just you and me.” Both men had stopped eating now and were staring at each other in fascination.

“Let me get this straight,” Bashir said slowly, “you want to play the part of the villain in my program? You want to try to destroy the world, or something like that, while I try to stop you?”

“That’s right.” Garak smiled broadly.

“But, Garak, I always win. You’d be...”

“Then there’s no risk,” Garak said cheerfully. “We’ll set a few ground rules and off we’ll go.”

“Wait a minute,” Bashir said crossly. “Aside from the fact that I don’t have time for this today, I’m not sure what the point is supposed to be. Are you saying that you want to play a game with me, and that the mere chance of victory will be enough for you? That sounds out of character, Garak. What do you expect to get out of it?” He started eating his rapidly cooling soup in large, spicy bites. A bit dribbled down his chin.

“You’re quite right, doctor. I neglected to mention the stakes I wish to play for.” The Cardassian ate another bite of soup and took his time chewing and swallowing while Bashir waited expectantly, his spoon poised halfway to his mouth. “If you win, which I expect you will, I will be at your disposal for an entire day. I will do anything you wish—tell you anything you wish to know, for example,” he said with particular emphasis. “Whereas, if I win, you will be at my entire disposal for the same period of time. I imagine that we each have completely different expectations about the satisfactions such a prize would offer.”

They were silent for a moment. Bashir looked puzzled as he tipped his bowl to scoop up the last few drops, and when he suddenly let the bowl drop to the serving plate with a clatter, something like horror had dawned in his eyes. Garak waited expectantly.

“You don’t mean...” he began. “You would...”

Garak planted his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Let me be more specific, dear doctor. If you win, I’ll tell you anything you want to know about my past, about the Obsidian Order, or about tailoring, if that interests you. Provided, of course, that you swear not to reveal anything I say to anyone else. If I win, I will most probably use you for my own pleasure. I will take you to my quarters, strip off your precious uniform, and find as many ways to satisfy myself on your willing body as I can think of in 26 hours. Does that make things clear, doctor?”

“Perfectly clear,” Bashir said grimly. A deep flush had spread from his neck to his cheekbones. “But what makes you think I would take that kind of risk? You’ve never asked me to join you in bed, Garak, and if you did, I’d refuse.”

“I know.” Garak pushed his plate and bowl brusquely away as if they had somehow offended him. “And yet I have often passed my time thinking of various ways I might convince you to do as I desire. Life isn’t often equitable. But it does offer certain opportunities for one who knows how to grasp them.”

“You sound like Quark,” Bashir scoffed. “But I have one question,” he continued haltingly, “if I wasn’t willing, then what would you—I mean, would you still want to do that to me? Would you still enjoy it?” he blurted, his voice rising.

Garak smiled. “I’m afraid I would, yes. As long as you submitted to me and I could do what I wished with you—I find a struggle tiresome—I wouldn’t waste my time worrying about whether you wanted it or not.”

As Bashir rose, his napkin slipped unnoticed to the floor. “It’s out of the question, Garak,” he said firmly. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some work to do.”

“Sit down, doctor,” Garak ordered. “I happen to know that your schedule is clear until 1600 hours. Besides, I don’t see any harm in discussing our little agreement. I’m not likely to pounce on you here and now, am I? In fact,” he continued ruefully, “I’m not likely to get the chance at all, since you know the program so much better than I.”

Bashir sat slowly. “Would you really take the risk of having to tell me all about yourself?” he asked, his dark eyes wide with interest. “You’ve never even considered it before.”

“Tain is dead.” Garak shrugged. “And I must admit to a recent urge to tell you certain things. After all, we’ve been friends for some time and...”

Bashir recoiled suddenly, breaking the spell. “And you’d think nothing of raping me for your own satisfaction.”

“Nor you of shooting me for your own purposes.” They glared at each other in angry silence, and that is where matters stood for several days.

When they next met for lunch, Bashir had decided to avoid all discussion of Garak’s proposal, and if the Cardassian insisted, well, he’d just have to break off their luncheon dates for a while. At first, Garak acted his normally cordial but disparaging self, and provoked Bashir into a spirited defense of Puccini’s opera “Tosca,” which Garak found absurd.

“Why did she stab Scarpia?” Garak asked aggressively.

“He wanted to rape her in exchange for Mario’s life. You see...”

“No, no,” Garak interrupted, waving away his objections. “It would never happen like that. Why wouldn’t she give up Mario, who was obviously doomed—a child could see Scarpia give the signal to execute him—and stay with Scarpia, who was the most powerful man around?”

“Tosca, go with Scarpia?” Bashir asked incredulously. “But she hates him. He stands for everything she despises. She loves Mario.”

“Ah, but what about expediency?” Garak asked with a smirk. “Mario and his friend in the resistance movement both die because of Tosca’s love and jealousy.”

“So does Scarpia.”

“But at what price?” Garak shook his head.

Bashir tried a new tack. “Expecting Tosca to let Scarpia have his way with her is ridiculous,” he said. “She’s just not the kind of woman who can pretend to love someone if she despises him.”

“She’s an actress,” Garak observed.

“True, but she has principles. She just couldn’t go to bed with a man who—”

“Doctor,” Garak interrupted brightly, “was there some significance to your choice of opera? Are you trying to tell me something? Do you accept my bargain?”

“As a matter of fact, no, Garak, I don’t.”

Garak shook his head sadly. “And all this time I thought you were intrigued by the idea of knowing my history. Just imagine how wrong I was. Perhaps I teased you too long. I should have given you a few more hints to keep you interested.” He sighed theatrically.

“Garak, I do want to know your history, but I wouldn’t stake ten credits, much less my body, on the chance of your actually telling me,” he tried to sound casual, but his blush belied him.

“Let’s see,” Garak mused, “what guarantees can I give you? What if we get my old enemy Gul Dukat involved? You could ask him to confirm or deny everything I tell you. He’d probably be glad to cooperate, so long as he knew he was helping to humiliate me.”

Bashir considered. “You mean he knows everything you’d tell me?”

“Not everything. But many things. Too much,” Garak said sadly. “There’s too much to tell. You might not even get the whole story if I talked continuously for 26 hours. But you’d know quite a bit.”

“But would Dukat want me to know Tain’s secrets?” Bashir asked skeptically.

“He’d be delighted to pass on some of the Obsidian Order’s dirty secrets to the Federation, but he can’t do it directly. He’s probably been bursting to tell Captain Sisko or the Major for months.”

“Then I accept,” Bashir said impulsively, “on certain conditions.” His pulse was pounding hard and fast, and he was aware of a sudden rush of excitement. “I choose the program, and you take the role of the villain without making any modifications to it.”

“Then how am I to stand a chance of winning? Isn’t the villain programmed to lose?” Garak’s appalled look made Bashir smirk confidently.

“Not necessarily,” Bashir answered. “I had the programmers leave in a certain element of risk.”

“But not much.”

“But not much,” Bashir agreed.

“Of course. You wanted a certain thrill of danger as well as time for your amorous encounters.” Garak’s smile was a shade too understanding.

“Those are built into the program,” Bashir said, avoiding his steady gaze.

“But not for the villain,” Garak said. When Bashir looked at him, Garak’s eyes were hard.

Bashir allowed the computer to select the program randomly from those plots he hadn’t played yet. They would play the game over three days. If no one had won by then, they would call it a draw. Otherwise, a fourth day was reserved for the winner to take his prize, which Bashir was confident would not be his own flesh.

Over the next week, he and Garak read through the players’ information and planned their strategies. Garak was to play a fabulously wealthy man who called himself Midas—vaguely labeled a “scientist,” with all the mythical connotations that title carried in Earth’s Cold War 60’s—who wanted to take revenge on certain high-ranking government officials around the world. Midas hadn’t been allowed to play a role in world politics, specifically in certain delicate negotiations with a fictional Middle East emirate, and for that neglect he had vowed revenge. The problem was his greed—he wanted to pillage the artistic treasures of any country under his so-called protection. The game would start with the Emir refusing to turn over his country’s cultural treasures to Midas, who would then threaten to assassinate him; if that happened, his anti-American cousin would come to power, and England’s temperamental ally, the United States of America, would not be amused. It was an election year, and the incumbent president, Mr. Jones, needed to prevent the assassination (as well as stabilize gasoline prices) to win reelection.

***

Oh, my, so much at stake! Call in Agent Bashir.

After a preliminary briefing on where to look for the elusive Midas, Bashir packs for tropical climes, and among the potted palms and white suits of some hotel bar on some colonial island he finds evidence that his prey has already flown the coop. An abandoned aromatic cigarette smolders in a crystal ashtray as a small plane’s engines drone overhead.

Disappointed at not getting to spend more time playing at Graham Greene, Bashir, with the faithful, if resuscitated, Mona at his side—or, rather, two steps behind him—prepares to head back to the Old World. _Damn,_ he thinks, _everything’s happening too fast. I hope Garak gets the idea soon of how to pace this thing_.

Garak—or Midas, if you prefer—leads him a merry chase. First to Paris, of course, where Bashir unpacks at the Hotel Crillon and begins what promises to be a very satisfying encounter with a blond, accented countess in the adjoining room. When the comely Mona knocks at the door with an urgent message from Control, the countess slaps his face and shoves him out of her bedroom with surprising strength. Sweaty and frustrated, Bashir learns that his quarry has taken the night train to Milano. From there he can choose any number of destinations.

“So what?” he cries. “Italian trains are the slowest on earth!”

“Then we’ll have a chance to catch up with him,” Mona observes coldly. Bashir wonders about the wisdom of bringing her along. He orders her to stay in Paris and have a good time.

A sleek red Alpha materializes in front of the hotel, and Bashir slips his thin case behind the seat and begins to drive. Not in real time, of course. Whenever he hits a boring stretch—the Parisian _banlieu_ , for example—the program jumps ahead a couple of hundred miles.

At last, the outskirts of Milan. What a maze the streets are! Bashir’s car seems to know the way, so he lets it lead him into the heart of the city until he sees the great white cathedral, sitting in its piazza like a tremendous wedding cake on a platter. He stops at the edge of the square. Nearby, the clamor of a fashionable restaurant attracts him. Easing his way to the bar, he orders his usual dry martini.

“ _Martini rosso, signore?_ ”

Bashir knew that wasn’t right. “Martini _americano,_ ” he says uncertainly.

The waiter smirks. “With gin, _signore_. _Molto bene_.”

Bashir suddenly wonders why two encounters in a row have left him feeling distinctly uncomfortable. The program is supposed to make him look and feel heroic at every turn. Is it possible that Garak has tampered with the plot? Any tampering with the interactive matrix might result in interference ripples that would manifest themselves as small disasters like these. Bashir resolves to stay on his guard.

He sips his martini. It’s good, better than he has a right to expect in an Italian bar. He relaxes a bit and starts to look around him. Beautiful women are here in abundance, of course. They wear miniskirts with thick belts, spike heels, hair piled high on their heads. He knows they would smell musky and sweet and good, feel smooth as silk. _But they aren’t real,_ a little voice whines in his head.

 _Damn it,_ he thinks, pushing his way deeper into the bar, _has Garak managed to poison even this pleasure for me?_

And then he sees him. Garak. No, Midas. Wearing a tux with a fancy cummerbund, a _Legion d’honneur_ decorating his lapel. _Really, Garak, what colossal nerve_ , Bashir almost says out loud. Carefully, he makes his way through the crowd to approach his prey. Midas is obviously the center of a group of admirers. A redhead and a blonde wearing slinky and revealing silk evening gowns cling to his crooked elbows, caressing his broad shoulders with their manicured hands. Bashir feels a stab of envy and reminds himself with annoyance that this whole scene is insubstantial, that the only thing at stake here is his bet with Garak, and not the affection of some unreal, if perfect, woman.

Moving cautiously, Bashir finds a position just behind Midas. None of his followers seems to notice. Is it going to be this easy? It’s unlikely that Garak would leave himself so open, but maybe he, too, has been caught up in the thrill of playacting in the holosuite.

Bashir lays a firm hand on Midas’s shoulder, displacing one of the women, who pouts at him prettily with pink frosted lips. “I think we have some business to discuss, sir,” he murmurs in his best man-of-the-world manner. “Come outside to my car.” Midas raises his eyebrows humorously. “I’m afraid this is no laughing matter,” Bashir goes on. “I’ve got a 27 Magnum aimed at your spine.” He bumps it against Garak’s back for emphasis.

“Ah, well, in that case, I suppose I’ll have to leave the party. Pity. It’s my birthday, you see.” Reluctantly detaching the wandering hands of his women friends, Midas precedes Bashir through the crowd and out to the sidewalk. The red Alpha waits at the curb.

“Get in,” Bashir orders, poking his captive again with the concealed gun.

Midas laughs, a frightening sound that Bashir has never heard come out of Garak’s mouth before. “No, Mr. Bashir,” he says, still chuckling, “I’m afraid it’s not that simple.”

The pinprick at Bashir’s neck instantly saps his strength, making the gun fall out of his hand and clatter to the pavement. He topples back into someone’s perfumed arms; his hair slides against warm silk. As his vision fogs over, he sees Midas climb into his Alpha and speed away, lost to sight behind the blurry white mass of the _Duomo_.

***

To rights, he should have awakened in the satin-sheeted bed of the beauty who had drugged him, left to him by Midas as a sort of consolation prize for his stupid blunder. Later, of course, she would turn out to be a spy for some Communist government and be forced to choose among her divided loyalties. In the coming crisis, she would choose Bashir and, as a result, die very prettily. But there was no woman. Something was decidedly wrong with this program.

There was no woman and there were no satin sheets. Agent Bashir found himself in a room at the best hotel in town—alone. When he called room service, he found that everything had been provided for, and his bill had even been paid in advance by the representative of an obliging gentleman who called himself Signore Goldfinger. Yes, the clerk was sure that was right. Signore M. Goldfinger. Bashir smiled in spite of himself. One of Garak’s little jokes.

After a shower and shave, breakfast and clean clothes, Bashir felt ready to continue the chase. He wondered how much time had elapsed as he lay drugged in this luxurious room. For that matter, he wondered what drug Garak had given him and where he had gotten it. When he asked the computer for the actual elapsed time, he was surprised to learn that only a few hours had passed. He felt quite refreshed, but, at this rate, he’d never catch his prey. The clerk informed him that another car had just been left for him; the wording of the message convinced him that Control had provided it, not Midas, so it was probably safe. The only problem was, now that he had a car, where should he go?

He hadn’t a clue where Midas had gone, but then he noticed that his new car was equipped with a tracking device designed to detect the tiny morsel of radioactive isotope that had been hidden in the dashboard of his Alpha for just such an emergency.

Feeling better, he slipped behind the wheel of his brand new Lotus and activated the tracking device. Midas was on his way down the Adriatic Coast, apparently heading for Naples. He had a full night’s head start, but, no matter—he would have to rest soon, and Bashir would catch him up. Perhaps Garak would take it more slowly this time—Bashir was more than ready for an amorous adventure. If Midas was indeed heading for Naples, Bashir knew of a few establishments where he would be welcome for the night. If they were going to catch the ferry for Greece, he knew a countess who would gladly share her bed once he got there. And there were other possibilities as well.

As he drove, he speculated idly about how he would eventually capture Midas. The villain was obviously hastening towards his headquarters, wherever they were. From Greece, he could get to Turkey, and at some point he’d probably catch a plane or a helicopter to his stronghold—Control had thought it might be somewhere in the Middle East. Once there, he would set his plan in motion, whatever it was. Would he try to assassinate the Emir—or perhaps President Jones himself? Or did he have larger aspirations?

Bashir didn’t really have any way of knowing where Midas’s stronghold might be, but he knew he needn’t waste much thought on it. According to the usual scenario, he had two choices if he wanted to figure it out quickly: follow the crook or let himself be captured. Bashir often opted for the second, being fairly uninterested in doing any elaborate detective or surveillance work. Besides, since the plot required that the final confrontation take place in Midas’s hideout, the program would reveal the location to Bashir sooner or later. He usually tried to drag out the plot in order to take advantage of any romantic interludes that might offer themselves. But this game was different; much more was at stake than the fate of a holosuite world. The prize here was himself. He swallowed hard against his shirt collar and loosened his tie just a bit.

Bashir yawned. He was having trouble keeping his mind on this plot and off how he could manage to obtain a bit of female companionship without losing the game. But his more immediate problem was the series of small disasters that had plagued him since the game had started. Garak was obviously reluctant to let him dally with a holosuite woman—but how would he know what Bashir was doing unless he had cheated? There were computer safeguards in place to keep Bashir and Garak from spying on one another’s movements outside the context of the game. As he drove, Bashir wondered what he could do to check up on his opponent. Maybe Garak had tried to even the odds.

***

Bashir stood at the rail of the ferry and let the sea air rumple his hair. He’d been thrown out of his character’s favorite whorehouse in Naples. “Under new management,” they’d said. The countess simply hadn’t answered her phone. None of this was going as planned. He wondered again if Garak had tampered with the program. These disappointments couldn’t be coincidental. But rather than make him want to stop the program and confront his adversary, his frustration crystallized his anger, made him more determined than ever to win and wrench Garak’s secrets from him.

Soon he was driving across Greece, flashing by dry hills and careening around flocks of dusty sheep. He was getting inexorably closer to his prey, marked by the little green blip on the screen. Garak must have stopped somewhere. The terrain grew hillier, and suddenly in the distance he saw his goal: a valley filled with strange pinkish spires of rock. They wavered in the heat haze until he came close enough to see that many of them were topped with ancient, tile-roofed buildings that looked as if they had grown out of the rock naturally like weird crystals: Meteora.

Bashir had been fascinated with this place since he’d read about it long ago. In the ninth century, Orthodox monks, fleeing persecution, had built these aery nests to which the only access in ancient times was a wicker basket, raised by rope pulleys. Now there were stairs—three hundred or more. In the game, one of the monasteries had been converted into a health resort.

As he approached the base of the third butte, his tracking device told him that he was right on top of his prey. He pulled his car into a hollow in the base of the rock so that it would be invisible from above. His red Alpha was parked in a similar hollow on the other side. There was only one way out, and Midas apparently didn’t realize that Agent Bashir could have caught up with him so soon.

Bashir bolted up the stairs, unable to believe his luck at trapping Midas in this place. When he arrived at the top, hot and breathless, a gorgeous young woman with ebony skin and surprised eyes took his jacket. Only then did he remember that he wasn’t playing his role properly. Agent Julian Bashir was always cool and calm, no matter what the situation. Even if he was excited by the chase he certainly didn’t rush up to the door of a health spa in a flustered condition.

“Hello, my dear,” he said in his coolest tone. “Which suite is Mr. Goldfinger in? He’s expecting me—no need to ring him.”

She smiled understandingly. “Oh, yes, you’re the gentleman who’s supposed to use his suite until he returns.”

Bashir paled. His mind churned very slowly. “Until he... returns?”

“Well, you see, he’s just left for...” A familiar thumping sound had started somewhere below them.

“My god!” cried Bashir, leaping for the railing and looking down into the vertiginous view. In the valley below, a white helicopter was just rising into the air, raising clouds of dust.

“He left you this note,” the young woman said, not seeming to notice his distress.

Bashir opened it with trembling hands.  

“Don’t worry,” it said, “you’ll catch up with me at Riyadh anyway. Yes, that’s where I’m going. Why would I hide it from you, my friend? I await your presence at the scene of my greatest triumph. Meanwhile, take a break. I’ve discovered the perfect masseuse. Enjoy her, in all senses of the word, if you will permit me to be vulgar. _A_ _bientôt_.”

Bashir folded the paper and stuffed it into his pocket. The young woman met his helpless gaze with sympathetic eyes.

“That Mr. Goldfinger is a difficult one, no?” she asked with the trace of an indefinable Mediterranean accent. “He told me to wait for you. I am now at your entire disposal.”

A throb of desire in his groin reminded Bashir of his need. He had been teased so long, and here was his reward. Of course he would catch up with Garak at his hideout—it was written into the program. Of what use was this ridiculous chase?

“Would you like a massage?” the woman was asking. Her hand caressed his shoulder now.

“Yes,” he agreed, and before he knew it he was lying on a massage table, naked except for a towel draped over his genitals, feeling her expert hands relax every muscle in his body while he contemplated a magnificent view. Every few minutes, she would put a straw to his lips, through which he could suck the most delicious citrus-scented ice water. Heaven.

“Turn over now, please, sir.” Her hands urged him onto his stomach, and he turned obediently with a sigh of contentment. The towel had disappeared, and he felt strong fingers start to massage his buttocks. Who cared where Garak was now? At last Bashir would have some satisfaction, and then he would be able to keep his mind on the chase.

A soft hand strayed between his legs and petted his scrotum. He sighed happily and spread his thighs further apart. The hand held his testicles for a moment before sliding forward to stroke his cock, coating it with slippery massage oil. Arching his back, Bashir raised himself slightly on one side to welcome the touch. Would she make him come like this, or would she urge him onto his back and mount him? He wasn’t sure which he preferred, so he let the touch continue to arouse him, content for the moment to let the program’s random event selector choose.

Her touch grew stronger, now, and surer. The hand closed tightly around him, almost too tightly. He whimpered, but the grip didn’t loosen. Another hand slid through his crease and began to stroke the area behind his balls, stimulating his prostate. The hand on his cock was hurting him now, holding back his climax as it pumped him up, making him harder and harder. He could feel the veins standing out on the shaft.

“Gently,” he said in a strained voice. “Not so hard. And, anyway, stop and let me roll over so I can touch you, too.”

In response, the second hand stopped stroking his prostate to part his buttocks and slowly begin to slip an oiled finger inside him.

“No,” he protested, squirming. “Don’t do that.” This wasn’t how he had programmed the masseuses to satisfy him. Never, never, had Julian Bashir, secret agent, been penetrated like a... like a... woman... The finger wriggled deep inside, and he pushed back against it instinctively. His cock throbbed like a wound; his balls ached and the finger inside him found a spot and pressed it hard like a button. Bashir groaned helplessly. He no longer had the power to stop this. Although he squirmed, the strong hands of the person behind pinned him, sweating and straining, to this hard tabletop. It wasn’t the woman, couldn’t be...

The hand on his cock moved faster now as the finger inside him slid and writhed. He moaned in inarticulate protest. A hot, wet mouth nipped his shoulders and he knew for a fact who was behind him and in him and around him as he came violently, gasping and pleading against the truth of this devastating pleasure.

“Garak,” he cried weakly.

A wet hand gripped his shoulder and hot breath puffed into his ear. “You must be mistaken, sir. I am Midas. When you were assigned to follow me, I knew that I would have you, and from now on a piece of you will always be mine. You couldn’t prevent me taking you, and you won’t thwart the rest of my plans. I will have the whole world—I’ll turn it inside out and fuck it. Follow me! Stop me if you can!”

With a low-pitched laugh, Midas was gone, leaving a congealing streak of semen across Bashir’s shoulder. He staggered to his feet, only to hear the whap-whap-whap of a second helicopter taking off from the atrium, where it had awaited Midas all the time.

***

Bashir called a time-out that lasted for a week. He left the holosuite without speaking to Garak and didn’t return any of his messages. One evening Bashir opened his door to find Garak standing there saying, “We had an agreement.”

“Yes, we did,” Bashir answered crisply, “and you violated it. And me.” He let the door slide closed in Garak’s face.

The next day, when he got a message saying simply, “Coward,” he knew who had sent it.

When Bashir went by the shop to speak to Garak a week later, the tailor didn’t seem the least bit chastened, but acted as if he were the offended party.

“This proves what I said before,” Garak said angrily. “You use that holosuite as a way to avoid contact with real beings. If a figment of some programmer’s imagination puts her hand on your manhood, that’s all right, but if a flesh-and-blood creature touches you—well, that’s another thing altogether. We can’t have any real skin-to-skin contact, now, can we?”

“Oh, shut up, Garak,” Bashir said irritably. “I’ve come to tell you that I’m willing to finish the game just because I’m determined to beat you and see if you’ll have the courage to honor your promise. But I’ll tell you one thing right now—if you touch me again, everything is off. Do you understand me?”

“Of course, doctor. Unless I win, of course. Isn’t that so?”

“Unless you win,” Bashir said coldly, “which is a very remote possibility at this point, since I had Rom go through the program and find the changes you made to it. I knew something was wrong from the moment I was kicked out of Madame Soubrette’s room in the Crillon. I should have called a halt then, but I didn’t think you’d sink so low.” He turned to go and then paused on the threshold. “I’ve asked for two days off starting tomorrow. We’ll finish the game in one and you’ll spend the other telling me your life story. Agreed?”

“Agreed, except that I don’t think I’ll be the one revealing my secrets.” Garak’s lewd smile hastened Bashir’s departure.

***

As he crawled quickly through the hot tunnel, Agent Bashir sweated profusely. He knew he had already ruined his suit—his cravat had been sacrificed long before. Since his confrontation with Garak, the program had been running much more normally; he’d even had time for a romantic encounter with a gorgeous woman who was spying on him for Midas. He had made love to her so artfully that she had betrayed her master’s plans and the location of his hideout, which turned out not to be in the Middle East at all. Bashir remembered how her gratitude had aroused him. She had told him he was her very best lover of all—better, even, than Midas—while the little voice in his mind cried faintly, _Not real, not real, not real..._

Now he was single-handedly infiltrating Midas’s headquarters in the lava caves under Taromina, in northeastern Sicily—the trip to Greece had only been a ruse after all. From here, Midas apparently planned to tap into all the great powers’ nuclear control systems, after which he would hold the world to ransom. If his extravagant demands were not met, he would set off all the nuclear weapons on earth in one gigantic holocaust. One of his demands was unlimited ownership of the world’s great art treasures. He wanted the Hermitage for his summer home, the Louvre for weekends, and the White House for his permanent residence, so as to be nearer the Smithsonian, of course, which was to belong exclusively to him. Fort Knox would be his private safety deposit box, for if he coveted anything more than paintings, it was precious metals, especially gold. King Tut’s sarcophagi and gold accouterments were to be transported to Midas’s private jet and accompany him wherever he went. He even planned to sleep in the gold sarcophagus, although Bashir thought it might be a tight fit.

In addition, Midas was to have a say in all the world’s affairs. If one government didn’t like it, that country would be summarily attacked by nuclear weapons, and too bad for the nearby nations in the path of the fallout. So far the United Nations had stalled in giving its answer—the Security Council was meeting overtime in closed session—and Midas was getting madder by the minute. Everyone was waiting to see if Agent Bashir could thwart this diabolical plan to steal their patrimony. If Midas got mad enough, of course, he just might blow up the world for spite. After all, he had hundreds of stolen art treasures and tons of gold in his cave hideout already. And after the fallout had dissipated he could go out and get whatever he wanted without interference. Bashir had to get his hands on Midas’s computer.

***

Finally, after an interminable crawl through humid darkness, Bashir comes upon an armored door set in the living rock. With little ado, he picks the intimidating lock and pulls the door back on its hinges. Cool air and the scent of jasmine puff out at him. A gun is pointed at his head by a sinister Italian henchman.

“ _Signore_ ,” he says gruffly, “ _c’è un ospite_. We have a guest.”

“Ah, Mr. Bashir, how kind of you to join us!” Midas crows, rising from his place at a wicker table. He is wearing a white suit, and the woman to whom Bashir has recently made exquisite love sits across from him, wearing a worried expression and a tight sundress that nearly exposes her enormous breasts. Bashir has apparently interrupted a garden party. He stands and immediately realizes how disreputable his clothes and appearance have become. He hopes to hell he looks dashing anyway, and imagines he does, for Sophia, the lovely lady—who supposedly resembles some long-forgotten Italian movie star of the period—is looking at him meltingly. His ego sufficiently bolstered, he speaks defiantly to Midas.

“I’m sorry to crash your party,” he says flippantly, “but I can’t let you go through with your plans.”

Midas laughs long and hard. “Not only will you ‘let’ me do everything I plan, but you’ll have a front-row seat for the destruction of the world.” He gestures towards the sky, and only then does Bashir notice that they are standing under a cleverly constructed transparent dome that protects them from the elements, not to mention fallout. The dome encloses a garden of Mediterranean plants growing in profusion. “I have everything I need right here,” says Midas, approaching his lady and gallantly lifting her fingers to his lips for a kiss. But her eyes are troubled; her chest heaves with suppressed emotion. Bashir looks at her soulfully. He has to get to that computer, but it’s nowhere in sight. He wonders why in these stories the villain always hides the computer somewhere behind a wall or a tapestry like an unsightly sofa and then reveals it with a flourish and a dastardly sneer.

 _Maybe I’m getting tired of this game,_ Bashir thinks glumly. _Garak has ruined it for me. There’s too much at stake this time._

“Get him some clean clothes and a shower!” Midas is ordering graciously. “The show won’t begin for another few minutes yet.” Bashir nearly sighs with relief. Now he won’t have to suffer through the climactic scene with clammy armpits and torn clothes.

He showers quickly, donning a crisp white linen suit that makes him look so good that he starts to regain his zest for the game. He strides confidently into the salon, where the party has now reconvened, and sends Sophia a flirtatious look.

“I see the suit fits perfectly,” Midas says with perhaps a shade too much admiration in his voice.

Bashir fights off a blush as he accepts a martini from a waiter with a tray. “Yes,” he says vaguely. “Now, about these fireworks you have planned...”

Midas laughs again, and Bashir notices something manic and upsetting about the spectacle of Garak in triumph. He shudders as Midas makes another of his expansive gestures, and finally the computer—a wall of shining silver, dotted with insanely blinking colored lights—emerges from behind a screen hung with exquisite Japanese scrolls. Bashir tries to make his casual way over to it, but the serious henchman gets in his path, brandishing a gun.

“Must he point that thing in my face all the time?” Bashir asks coolly, sipping his drink. Midas waves the man away, and he slinks unwillingly to a corner.

And now Midas himself goes over to the computer and plays it like an organ, bringing up on a funny, old-fashioned television screen the image of the U.N. Security Council President, an anxious-looking African man in his fifties.

“It’s almost time, Mr. President.” Midas says dangerously. “What is your decision?”

“Mr. Midas,” the man pleads, “we simply need more time. The Security Council...”

“More time?” Midas says, outraged. “More time? My good man, the choice is simple. Either the nations of the world unite in peace under my skilled leadership, or there will be no world.” The emphasis he places on each separate word makes Bashir’s skin crawl. He has to get to that computer.

“Just a moment, sir,” says the president, obviously sweating. “I must speak again to the council.”

“You have fifteen minutes,” Midas intones. “After that, nothing can prevent your fate.” He glares at the empty screen as if he could read his future there.

Suddenly Bashir notices that Sophia is trying to attract his attention with small motions of her hands. He watches more closely and realizes that she is gesturing at a large red button at one end of the control panel. Of course. In these scenarios there’s always a button, not a computer command. No wonder sixties Americans often referred to nuclear war as “pushing the button.” If Midas can’t reach the button, then he can’t set off a nuclear holocaust. Bashir nods almost imperceptibly to show he understands and walks back over to the drinks on the sideboard.

Midas is on the other side of the room, and Bashir knows his first move must be to dispose of the guard and arm himself. He fills an old-fashioned glass to the brim with gin under the guard’s watchful eye and then chucks it in the man’s face, momentarily blinding him. Sophia helps out by clobbering the poor fellow with a priceless Ming vase while Bashir grabs his gun. In real life, Bashir suddenly thinks, I would be down on my knees helping that man, but apparently, he is happy to note, his heart is fully hardened against these holosuite creatures. At the moment, he only cares about beating Garak.

Midas turns as the man crumples to the floor, just in time to see Bashir, smirking triumphantly, point a gun at his midsection. He slowly raises his hands. He smiles.

“Don’t think you’ve won this easily, Mr. Bashir,” he says darkly. “The events I have set in motion are inexorable.” Bashir feels a chill and sees Sophia’s eyes shift to the doorway and dilate in horror. Cautiously, he turns, still keeping the gun trained on Midas, and sees...

“Garak!” he cries in exasperation, looking from one to the other. “We agreed that holodoubles would be against the rules.”

“That’s the second time you’ve called me by that unfamiliar name, sir. Have you mistaken me for someone else?” The newcomer Midas looks hugely pleased with himself. “That gentleman over there is no holodouble, whatever that is. He’s an android of my own invention. His programming is limited, of course, but I have used him in the past to sit in for me at boring dinner parties, and no one has ever known the difference. So why shouldn’t I use him to make a few threats to the president of the Security Council while I freshen up?”

As if on cue, the frightened-looking president comes back on the screen. “Mr. Midas, the Council can’t agree. If I could only convince you to...”

“Never!” thunder both Midases in chorus, lunging for the button.

“Stop!” yells Bashir. He fires one shot, hitting the android Midas in the back. It falters and falls in the path of its original, twitching and clicking like a broken machine. “Don’t move,” Bashir warns, “or you’re next.”

Midas looks down at the ruins of his creation with something like real chagrin. _He’s playing his part so well it’s frightening,_ Bashir thinks.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Midas says sadly. “He was such a perfect android. But, of course, I’ve heard that you have no compunction about shooting people.”

“It’s your own fault, Midas,” Bashir replies sternly, trying to keep his elation under control. “Now, step away from the button, if you please.”

Midas steps back unwillingly, his eyes seeking out Sophia, who is frozen in place, still holding the end of the smashed Ming vase.

“Come, my dear,” he says quietly. “Do what has to be done.”

The rest of the vase crashes to the marble floor. “No,” she breathes into the echoing silence. “I can’t.”

“Of course you can’t,” Bashir says sympathetically. He knew that things would turn out this way. Of course Midas’s own spy turns against him in the end, knowing him for the megalomaniac he is.

“You can,” Midas says, willing her to the button with his eyes.

But—what’s this? Sophia is edging towards the panel, looking at Bashir with wide and frightened eyes. “I’m sorry, Julian,” she says. “I have to do what Midas tells me.”

“No, Sophia, you don’t.” Bashir’s heart is pumping painfully hard against his chest. How can this be possible? Is he going to lose? How can she make him lose? She loves him! “Sophia,” he says helplessly, “come here. Be reasonable. That button will destroy the world.”

“Don’t you see?” she says, and of course he doesn’t, even after she tells him. “If there’s no outside world, then you can’t go away to your next mission, and Midas can’t leave me for anyone else. I’ll be the only woman, and I’ll have you both, because we’ll have to create a new human race.”

Midas looks at her with a combination of new respect and interest as if he’s never thought of things quite this way before. Bashir’s lips are moving but no sound comes out for a moment, and even then it’s only a low, deflating moan, like the air escaping from a rubber raft. Sophia reaches the button, considers it for a moment, and places her open palm over it.

“Shoot her!” shouts the forgotten Security Council President, startling everyone in the room.

 _Of course! How could he be so dense? She’s not real!_ Bashir fumbles with his gun and plugs her in the back. With her last bit of strength, she pushes the button that begins the holocaust.

“My dear Mr. Bashir,” Midas exclaims gleefully, “I’m surprised you didn’t think of shooting her before. But then, of course—unlike me—she seemed so real.”

Bashir ended the program before the whirlwind and the special effects got too far advanced. He was sick at heart. A month before, he had shot Garak, a real being, in the holosuite, but just now he hadn’t had the presence of mind to shoot a stupid holosuite character who made him lose his bet. Strangely enough, Garak didn’t even rub it in.

“My quarters, 1900 hours tonight,” he said brusquely. “Don’t eat too heavily at dinner.” And he stalked off, looking inscrutable. Bashir couldn’t even tell if he was glad to have won.

***

The warning about dinner was not needed. Bashir took only a few mouthfuls before his stomach rebelled against the idea of having anything solid in it at all. He had a glass of synthale instead and lay morosely on his bunk. What an absurd idea this bet had been. Why had he gone along with it? Surely Garak couldn’t hold him to its terms. Should he even show up at Garak’s place? It wasn’t as if Garak could send Odo to fetch him. The best thing to do would be to go and explain to Garak why he couldn’t go through with it—because he didn’t want to, and that should be enough. Besides, Garak had already touched him without permission in the holosuite, and that, he could argue, should be the end of it.

He lay back and thought for a moment about what it had been like when Garak had touched him. It had felt—well, to be honest, he had never felt anything quite like it, but the sensation of being entirely in someone else’s hands still frightened him. If a holosuite creation had given him that much pleasure, he’d be sure to go back and do it again. _But not with Garak—that’s out of the question. He’s too volatile and unpredictable. He’s—_

 _He’s real,_ said the little voice at the back of Bashir’s mind. He closed his eyes and took a long drink of his synthale.

What if Garak had asked him to share his bed? A few weeks ago, or even a week ago, he would have refused without a second thought, but now... Now, at the moment when he was starting to be attracted to Garak, he would be forced to be his sexual slave. What a tragic irony, to be raped by the person you desire because he thinks you don’t want him. Bashir hoped it wouldn’t happen like that. But he needed time.

“I’ll talk to him,” he murmured to himself. “I can make him understand.” _What if I can’t?_ The thought nagged at him. _Maybe I shouldn’t go... but I have to go. I owe him at least that._

Bashir rose unwillingly a few minutes before the hour and dressed in black pants and t-shirt to fit his somber mood. As he dressed, he ran his hands over his strangely hypersensitive skin. His nipples bunched into hard points; his cock was tender and a bit engorged. Just thinking about what had happened before was starting to excite him, but the thought of Garak taking him gave him a painful feeling of unease in the pit of his stomach. Adrenalin rushed through his blood.  

Full of dread, he walked slowly down the corridor to Garak’s quarters, hoping in vain that a medical emergency would get him off the hook at the last minute, but he arrived without incident. As soon as he hit the chime, the door slid open, and he stepped cautiously inside. The lighting was quite subdued.

“Garak,” he began, “there’s something I need to say to you...”

But Garak was busy at the control panel by the door. “Computer, lock door and safeguard with pre-arranged code. Start 26 hour timer, mark.” He plucked Bashir’s comm badge from his chest. “Now, doctor,” he said, “what did you want to tell me?”

Bashir licked his dry lips. “That I can’t—I can’t go through with this,” he blurted out. “You already touched me in the holosuite. Let’s just call it even and start over from there. Right now I feel...”

Garak laughed, but his face looked pained. “It is so like you, my dear doctor, to think that all I wanted to do was to give you pleasure. Did you ever consider my needs? No, of course you didn’t. Barely two weeks ago, I seem to recall, you shot me in the neck when we disagreed on a course of action. But that’s hardly worth bringing up.”

“I didn’t really hurt you,” Bashir said, his heart sinking. “It was only a minor abrasion.”

“And if it hadn’t been? What if you’d killed me? What then? Would you have felt more than a momentary qualm? After all, you were doing your duty.” Turning his face away, Garak walked to the center of the room where the light was dimmest. “I am under no obligation to confess to you tonight, doctor, but I will go so far as to say that I have wanted this particular satisfaction too long to give it up now. I earned you, and I will have you. Lights up to 50 percent.”

Now Bashir noticed that Garak was naked from the waist up, and from the waist down wore skin-tight pants with an obvious slit in the front. He was barefoot. A few leather thongs were looped loosely around his waist. He looked muscular, much stronger than Bashir. The nearly empty _kanaar_ bottle on the table made it clear he had been drinking.

“Garak,” he choked, “it was a stupid bet. I made a mistake. I...” He trailed off when he saw Garak’s face.

In a few steps Garak was upon him, holding him firmly by the front of the shirt. His breath was hot and alcoholic when it puffed against Bashir’s lips. “Correct me if I’m wrong, doctor,” he said dangerously, “but didn’t I spell out in great detail exactly what I would wish to do with you if I won our bet?” When Bashir didn’t answer, Garak shook him angrily. “Didn’t I?”

“Yes,” Bashir answered unwillingly, “but...”

“No buts!” Garak said explosively. “You knew what would happen and yet you agreed to the bet, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“So there’s nothing left to discuss, is there?” Garak said firmly.

“Only that I don’t want it like this.” As Bashir looked into Garak’s eyes he saw that the tailor had been pushed deep into himself by frustration, loneliness, alcohol. Any Terran on the station would agree with Bashir that the bet had been insane, against the basic tenants of humanity, and that Bashir couldn’t be held to it. But Garak was past listening, past caring—and besides, he wasn’t human. Trying to convince Garak in his misery to wait for Bashir to learn how to love him was obviously futile. Garak had schemed for this moment, had thought of nothing else in weeks. Now that Garak held Bashir’s liberty in his hands, he wouldn’t let go.

And as Bashir realized that nothing he could say would change Garak’s purpose, and, indeed, that argument only seemed to stoke the fire in his eyes, a wave of despair flowed through him. He could go down begging and struggling or he could seize what little dignity was left to him and go down bravely, but go down he would. Trying to gather himself, he met Garak’s gaze steadily, determined to take what was coming with courage. Garak’s eyes glanced away as he loosened his hold on Bashir’s shirt.

“Delightful,” Garak said with mock lightness. “Now that you’ve told me in no uncertain terms that my attentions are abhorrent to you, you may remove your clothes. And don’t think, dear doctor, that I will hesitate to injure you if you resist me.”

As if in a dream, Bashir removed his boots and socks and tossed them to the floor. He ripped his t-shirt over his head and threw it on top of the shoes. With only a second’s hesitation, he removed his pants and added them to the pile before hooking his thumbs in the waistband of his briefs and starting to pull them down.

“Wait!” Garak said suddenly. “Leave those.” With one finger he pushed Bashir’s briefs down to his knees and then stood back to admire the effect. “Yes, that will do for the moment.”

Hyperconscious of Garak’s hungry scrutiny, Bashir stood at attention, staring impassively ahead. He followed Garak’s gaze as it caressed his long neck, where a vein throbbed visibly, and ran across his chest and down to his cock, where it brightened and lingered before sliding down his long legs. _Why did I come here?_ Bashir wondered bitterly. _Will he really go through with it?_

“Oh, yes,” said Garak with satisfaction, as if answering his thoughts. “Now, for the little matter of possession.” With one toe he pushed Bashir’s briefs to the floor. “Step out of them.” Bashir swayed a little as he did so. “Kneel.” The insistent weight of Garak’s arm on his shoulder; his knees hitting the ground. “Bend over. Like this. Spread your legs.” Garak poked and prodded Bashir into the pose he wanted: resting on his knees and elbows with his ass in the air and his legs wide apart. “Splendid. Stay that way.”

Bashir closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying to master the fear. He felt cold air moving around his privates. Garak’s hands lightly stroked his backside. As the seconds passed in silence, he wasn’t sure exactly why he continued to hold himself in this ridiculous and vulnerable position. His teeth began to chatter and his knees turned to water. He heard Garak’s voice, strange and yet familiar; soothing and frightening at the same time.

“Look at you. Just look at you. Poised at the brink of a major passage in your life—one that you can’t control. Once we’ve passed beyond it, there’s no going back.” Bashir trembled hard, and Garak stroked his damp back tenderly. “Don’t worry, dear doctor. No matter how many others take you, you’ll always remember this moment. You’ll never be as frightened or as innocent again. I will be the first. A little piece of you will always be mine.”

The echo of Midas’s words in the holosuite reverberated in Bashir’s terrified mind. _He’s really going to do it!_ he thought desperately. _How can he betray me like this?_ Hot hands parted his ass and a pair of lubricated thumbs massaged his opening, stretching it. “Noooo,” Bashir groaned and started to collapse. Garak caught him by the hips and held him up.

“Steady, now. Steady, my dear. In a moment it will be done, irrevocable. Steady.”

Garak held him up with one arm and with the other squirted cold lubricant inside him. Bashir shuddered hard, almost convulsing. Fingers pushed in, massaging and stretching him. He twisted away, but he couldn’t shake off the iron arm.

“Forgive the observation, my dear doctor, but this isn’t much like your beloved program, is it? Here you are, about to be fucked against your will, and there isn’t a thing you can do about it. A far cry from saving the universe, wouldn’t you say?”

“Damn you, Garak. I never thought you could do this to me.” Bashir’s voice was ragged with fear.

“There are many things you don’t know about me, and now you never will, because you lost the game.” Garak’s voice was tense, his words clipped. “It’s clear that you see me as a curiosity rather than a friend, someone who will interest you only as long as his secrets remain unrevealed. Well, two can play at that game, doctor. For tonight I have decided to see you as a beautiful body, here to serve my needs, and only that. Come to think of it, that’s the way you treat the women in your holoprogram,” he added slyly. “I’m going to take you the way you take Mona Loves-it”—he spoke the name as two words, derisively—”who has a degree in engineering and speaks seven languages—or was that eight?” Garak lowered Bashir’s body to the floor and continued to massage his opening, working it with his fingers.

“That’s different!” Bashir cried, unsuccessfully resisting the invasion. “She isn’t real.”

Desisting abruptly from his work, Garak turned him over and pushed his legs apart before taking up Bashir’s limp penis and starting to stroke it. Bashir grabbed Garak’s wrist and tried to pull his hand away. “No,” Bashir said, “not that.”

Garak let go long enough to slap his face hard and end his resistance. Bashir stared at him, shocked. “Maybe for tonight you aren’t real to me, either,” Garak mused, “or, rather, your body is very real—that’s the point of this exercise, after all—but perhaps I don’t care what you’re feeling any more than I worry about what the sofa thinks when I sit on it.”

With his last words he flipped Bashir onto his stomach so casually that Bashir felt completely mastered. He knew his doom was approaching, and when he felt something hot and blunt press up against him he began to tremble. His mind searched fruitlessly for a way out.

“Please don’t, Garak,” he whispered, discarding his resolution not to beg. “I thought you were my friend.”

“Ah, yes, but this has nothing more to do with friendship than your shooting me, my friend,” Garak replied ironically. “We had an agreement. You knew exactly what might happen but you were too cocky to believe it. Now it’s happening. Little fool,” he said affectionately, “you probably didn’t even realize I wanted you. Did you?” There was genuine curiosity in Garak’s tone.

“No,” Bashir croaked, hoarse with apprehension. “Dax told me once that I was teasing you too much, pushing you too far, but I didn’t believe her.”

“Ah! A wise being, that one. You should have listened to her.” Garak continued to push, harder now. His hands around Bashir’s waist felt like iron bands.

Panicked, struggling to think straight, Bashir felt a half-formed insight jump into his mind. “Garak,” he said urgently, “why didn’t you ever ask me if I wanted to be with you? Why did you feel you had to force me?”

Garak stopped pushing and jerked Bashir around to look into his face. Garak’s eyes showed a spectrum of emotions in which Bashir mainly read anger. “And what would you have said to that, my fine friend? Did you ever, until I took you in the holosuite, entertain the notion that my touch might be pleasant?”

“No,” Bashir said, realizing it was true. “I suppose I didn’t. But you could have...”

“I could have humiliated myself, and afterwards I probably would have been kicked off the station for my pains,” Garak cried, gripping Bashir’s shoulders hard enough to leave marks. “You would have told Kira, and Kira would have found a way to get rid of me.”

“Don’t you think that might happen now?”

Garak treated him to a feral smile. “Perhaps. But at least I will actually have done the thing I’m being punished for.” He laughed silently. “That will be a novel experience.” He considered a moment, tightening his grip. “So, even after shooting me, even after what’s about to happen here, you still think we have a chance for a sweet little romantic friendship, do you?” he mused ironically, as if to himself. “Well, that’s all finished now. And I suspect you’re just trying to make me feel guilty enough to stop.” He started to turn Bashir again, forcing him to the floor.

“But it’s not too late, Garak. It’s not!” Now, at the moment when they were about to lose everything, Bashir could see it all so clearly: how much they meant to each other, and how much Garak wanted him. Garak’s desperate lust, which so intimidated the young man, also moved him deeply. He been so blind, so unfeeling until now—if only he could make Garak see it, too. He stroked the powerful grey arms that held him. “Please, Garak. Listen to me.”

Surprised by his touch, Garak hesitated, loosening his grip. “Why should I?” he asked quietly, and Bashir could tell that he was listening. _He doesn’t really want to do this to me_ , Bashir thought with a quick surge of hope. _He cares about me, he really does. If only I can give him a reason to stop..._

“Because...” Bashir knew he couldn’t falter now, for if Garak closed his mind again all would be lost. “Because ever since that time in the holosuite I’ve been thinking about you. I’ve been wondering what it might be like to... to be with you.” Bashir struggled to get the words out, to make Garak understand what he felt, knowing that the clock was running out on their only chance.

“I see,” Garak said, and the irony was back in his voice. “If I’ll just let you go this time, then maybe, just maybe, you’ll come back and give me a try. And maybe you won’t. And I don’t believe you for an instant.”

Bashir twisted out of the lax grip and laid his hands on Garak’s bare shoulders. “No, don’t let me go,” he answered, suddenly inspired. “Take me. Do whatever you like with me. But don’t rape me. Make love to me. Show me how you feel.”

Garak sat back on his heels. “Make love to you?” he echoed incredulously. “You don’t know what you’re asking, doctor. I want you to be a piece of furniture, a block of wood, my little whore. I want to have you without feeling anything but your flesh against mine.” He shook his head, whispering, “You have no idea how you’ve tormented me.”

Bashir moved over to sit by him. “No,” he said softly, “I don’t. Why don’t you tell me?”

When Garak met his eyes, Bashir flinched away from the anguish written in his expression. “You don’t know what you’re asking of me,” Garak said again with a humorless smile.

“Maybe I don’t,” Bashir agreed. “In fact, I know I’m really not ready for this, but if it will convince you that I’m telling the truth, I’m willing to put my body on the line. I don’t want to hate you, Garak. I’m just starting to see what you mean to me. What I mean to you...”

“You humans are so concerned with ‘fair play,’“ Garak said moodily. “I’ve never been quite sure what that means. But surely it’s clear that I won the bet. I can’t help feeling that you’re trying to get around that fact.”

“Open the door,” Bashir said impulsively, “and I promise I’ll stay.”

Garak laughed out loud, and Bashir knew with a sinking feeling that he had been misunderstood.

“‘Make love to me,’“ Garak mimicked. “‘Show me how you feel.’ Oh, yes, doctor, you nearly had me. I _am_ losing my touch.” With firm hands he took hold of Bashir again. “Time for our reckoning, doctor.”

As Garak started to turn him, the doctor threw his arms around Garak’s neck in a panic and held on tight, pressing his lips to Garak’s. The Cardassian shoved him to the carpet hard enough to knock the wind out of him and pushed his knees up to his chest.

“That’s right, Garak,” Bashir said, gasping for breath, “face me while you fuck me.”

Garak’s cock was at his opening again, pushing harder now with Garak’s whole weight bearing down behind it. Bashir cried out in pain as Garak slipped inside and gloated into his face, growling in the back of his throat. Bashir felt overwhelmed by what was happening to him. Garak was inside him, between his legs, pinning him to the floor with his bulk. He felt the fabric of Garak’s tight pants against his backside. He was full, so full that he could hardly breathe for fear he’d split in two. And then Garak began to move, pulling his cock nearly out and driving it slowly in again. Bashir’s vision was clouded by the pain from his stretched ass, but he kept his eyes locked with Garak’s. Deeper inside him than he thought possible he felt Garak’s touch spread a frustrating yearning through his groin and belly, making his balls ache and his nipples long to be squeezed. Each time Garak’s belly rubbed against his erection, the pleasure that stabbed him was white hot, searing. When he squirmed and groaned with lust Garak began to shove in harder, spreading Bashir’s knees further apart with his hands.

“So, you want me deeper inside you?” he mocked, taking Bashir’s movements for a protest. “How nice. Do I please you like this?”

Bashir was incapable of answering, lost in a forest of unexpected and violent sensations while Garak’s scent surrounded him in a sexual haze. He took Garak’s head between his hands and forced it down to his own for an open-mouthed kiss. Garak responded fiercely, brutalizing Bashir’s lips with his teeth and tongue. The taste of blood bloomed between them. As Garak inclined to him, the pressure on Bashir’s erection increased. He felt the Cardassian’s armored leather skin abrade his chest. And then a tumult began inside him, so deep it felt as if the station had tilted on its axis and the antigrav had died, and he realized that the epicenter of this wild commotion was his soul, and he was screaming his heart out, coming while Garak fucked him furiously, caught up in his own release.

***

When it was over, Bashir dozed off on the carpet with the sweat and semen cooling on his body. He dreamt he was walking through the halls of Deep Space Nine wearing nothing but a pair of briefs that kept dropping to his knees. People he knew passed him, looking him up and down with predatory looks on their faces. He started awake and reached out for Garak, but his hand scraped across empty carpet.

“Garak?” He sat up and saw Garak sitting at the table, a half-empty glass of _kanaar_ in his hand. “How long was I asleep?”

Garak looked moodily at his drink as he answered. “A few minutes.”

Bashir got up slowly. His body felt sore and battered. His lips tasted salty where they had been bruised by Garak’s voracious mouth. “Why are you drinking that trash again?” Bashir asked, approaching him. “I thought you prided yourself on your intelligence. Well, _kanaar_ kills brain cells faster than anything else I know.” He stood in front of Garak, who didn’t look up at him but continued to turn his glass one way and another as though reading something there.

“I should have known you would complicate things,” he muttered.

Bashir laughed incredulously. “So sorry I interfered with your nice, simple rape,” he said in a voice full of sarcasm.

Garak finally looked him in the face. “You liked it,” he said, still astounded. “All this time I’ve been thinking about you as my victim, making my plans. It was all so easy to trap you here, get you in my power. I never thought...” He trailed off and took another mouthful of _kanaar_.

Bashir shook his head and reached down to take the drink from Garak’s hand. Garak’s grip tightened around the glass so that for a moment it wavered between them. Silently they struggled to break each other’s hold. “Come on, Garak,” Bashir finally said, exasperated. “Can’t you face me without this stuff? I would think you’d be ashamed to have such an obvious weakness.”

Making an angry sound in the back of his throat, Garak wrenched the glass away from the doctor and set it down forcefully on the table, glaring at Bashir all the time. But as he removed his hand from the drink, Bashir snatched it up and threw it violently against the wall, where it smashed to pieces. They both watched the viscous blue liquid drip down to the carpet.

“You think you considered every detail, Garak, when you made your plans,” Bashir said softly. “You tricked me into playing the game and you trapped me here in your quarters, and I know I don’t have a prayer of getting away. But do you know where you went wrong, Garak? Somehow, through all that, you didn’t think of me—you didn’t think of who I am. Oh, you thought of my body, I suppose, but you didn’t think of the person inside it. Me, the one who’s shared all those lunches with you. How could you think you’d be in complete control? You aren’t, you know. Oh, I know you’re stronger than I, and you can do anything you want to me, but I’m going to fight you every step of the way. I’m going to make you face me.”

Garak started forward and grabbed Bashir by the upper arms, pulling him down at an uncomfortable angle. “So you really don’t want it again, do you, doctor? Everything you said about ‘making love’ was just a ploy to escape.”

Bashir tried unsuccessfully to pull away. “You can think that if you like, Garak, but as a matter of fact I do want to make love with you, and I think you’d rather do it that way, too.”

“I’m so glad you want it, doctor,” Garak said unctuously, ignoring the import of Bashir’s words, “because you’re going to have it right now.” He forced Bashir around, laying him over the edge of the table, and prepared to mount him.

“All right, Garak,” Bashir said, fighting the panic rising in his chest at the thought of his helplessness. “If you need me this way, all right. But don’t tear me apart. Use the lubrication. Please.”

Garak laughed. “Don’t you remember? You’re lubricated enough.” With one knee Garak spread Bashir’s thighs and pushed between them. Bashir felt Garak’s cock butt up against him, feeling impossibly huge, but a moment later it slid effortlessly inside him. “You’re all stretched out for me. I’ve opened you,” Garak said lustfully. He stopped talking and began to take his pleasure, holding Bashir by the hips and driving into him with firm strokes.

Under him, pressed into the table, Bashir once again felt assaulted by new sensations. His ass hurt at first, but after Garak slipped in and out a few times he felt the new and strange feeling of fullness, that pressure inside that evoked an irresistible yearning for more stimulation. He began to move to Garak’s rhythm, shoving back and spreading his legs so that Garak’s thrusts penetrated him as deeply as possible.

“You see, Garak? I do want it,” he said breathlessly. “It’s driving me crazy, I could get addicted to this. But put your hand on me, Garak. Touch me. Make me come. Garak!” He squirmed in need, afraid that the Cardassian was oblivious to his words. But unexpectedly a hand wrapped around his hardness, making him groan happily. “That’s it, that’s it. Do _that_.” And then his words dissolved into incoherence as he was overwhelmed by Garak’s touch.

Bashir felt Garak’s hot breath on his shoulders as Garak’s hand brought him ever closer to release. Garak was in him, fucking him. Garak’s mouth was on his back, licking and biting his skin. Bashir realized that, without quite knowing it, he had always wanted this. All the time Garak had suffered, wanting him, Bashir had satisfied his own desires in the most antiseptic way possible—by playing silly games with holosuite shadows. This rough encounter embodied true passion, the truest thing Garak had ever offered him. In letting Garak master him, Bashir had finally caught the elusive tailor. As he gasped under the blows of Garak’s body, as he sweated and moaned, Bashir lost himself in desire. His inhibitions, along with all his secret-agent posturing, fell away. In opening himself to Garak’s fierce desire, he had discovered his own. He cried out and spent into Garak’s hand.

As Garak felt Bashir’s convulsions, he laid his head down on the smooth back under him, pushed in hard, and groaned with the force of his own climax. They lay there panting for a moment before Garak rose, releasing the young male under him.

Bashir staggered a bit as he got up, then stretched and smoothed his tousled and sweaty hair. “The rug cleaners won’t be happy with you, Garak,” he said with satisfaction. “First _kanaar_ and now semen.” Walking up to Garak, Bashir cupped his face in both hands to look into the blue eyes. For a moment he saw confusion there, until Garak grasped Bashir’s hands with his and removed them from his face.

Holding Bashir’s wrists firmly in his hands, Garak said contemptuously, “Your ploy didn’t work, doctor. I’ve had you twice now and you’ve only been here an hour.”

“I’ve had you twice, as well, Garak,” Bashir said with amusement. “That’s just a different way of looking at things.” He gestured towards the bathroom with his head. “I need a shower. Care to join me?”

“Did I say you could take a shower?” Garak asked menacingly, squeezing his wrists hard.

Bashir laughed. “Come on, Garak, drop that fantasy you constructed of how this was going to be. The reality is better, believe me.”

Garak stared for a moment and then relaxed his grip on Bashir’s wrists. “I thought that was the lesson I was trying to teach you,” he said.

Bashir stared back, trying to read the enigmatic expression in Garak’s eyes. “You think that those holosuite fantasies take the place of reality for me, don’t you?”

“Don’t they? Don’t they give you so much satisfaction that you don’t look for it elsewhere?”

Bashir looked down. “You’re right,” he said finally. “I hate to admit it, but you’re absolutely right.” Without explaining further or waiting for Garak’s reply, he went into the bathroom and closed the door.

Garak stood immobile, listening to the sound of water running in the shower. A minute later he walked to the replicator and paused there, thinking about ordering another _kanaar_. Turning away abruptly, he went to the bathroom door and tried it. He gathered his strength instinctively, ready to force the door, but found it unlocked. Without knowing what to expect, he entered.

He could see Bashir through the veil of water hitting the force field, rinsing the last of the soap off his body. When he saw Garak, he smiled. “Come in.” Without thinking, Garak removed his pants and walked through the sparkling curtain of water. With proprietary ease, he took the young man between his hands. “Wait,” Bashir ordered, rubbing his hands around the soap to make more lather. “Let me wash you.”

Suddenly struck dumb, Garak allowed Bashir to run smooth hands over him, spreading the thick suds down his shoulders and back, up from his feet to his thighs, and finally over his sex. Bashir’s touch was so gentle, so intimate, that submitting to it was almost a torment. His cock stirred under Bashir’s continuing caress, and when Bashir looked up into his eyes with pleasure, Garak had to look away.

“It’s all right,” Bashir whispered. “Don’t be afraid.”

Gazing into the blue eyes, Bashir could see that Garak wanted to snarl that he wasn’t afraid, that nothing could be further from the truth, but instead he kept silent and let the subtle touch slowly arouse him. Bashir knelt and continued his washing and stroking.

“I’ve been so stupid,” Bashir said passionately, running gentle fingertips up Garak’s cock from the base to the tip. “I never let myself think of you this way. I didn’t want to complicate our friendship, but I didn’t know about this...

When Bashir suddenly took Garak’s erection into his mouth, he felt the Cardassian’s body jolt with surprise. The impulse had surprised Bashir as well, but he surrendered to it, closing his eyes and running his tongue over the smooth head until he heard Garak stifle a cry, and then plunging it as far down his throat as he dared. Garak bumped against the shower wall and leaned there, eyes closed, hips rotating, pushing towards Bashir’s mouth. With his hands he did nothing but clench and unclench on empty air. Bashir wrapped one arm around Garak’s muscular thighs while mouthing and pumping his erection steadily, gauging from Garak’s groans that he was nearly lost. When the organ he held seemed to glow with an inner heat, when it became so big and solid that it stretched his jaw to the limit, Bashir let it slip all the way in as he embraced Garak around the thighs with both arms and felt the hot semen slip down his throat to become a part of him. He pulled back, breathing hard, and let Garak slide to the floor. They sat side by side, very close, leaning against the wall of the shower.

Minutes passed in silence. When Bashir started to get up, Garak’s powerful hand pushed him back to the floor.

“I’m going to tell you a story,” Garak began slowly.

“Garak, you don’t have to—”

“Be quiet,” Garak ordered. “Once, many years ago, a young Cardassian unexpectedly became the lover and the lieutenant of a very powerful Obsidian Order operative. He was very cocky, this lieutenant. He thought he could take anything life dished out to him, but his new master was something else.” He paused to take an audible breath and when Bashir dared to look into his face he was stunned by the pain he saw revealed there.

“The first time his master took him, it was easy. All he had to do was endure. He knew about enduring, this lieutenant. He’d already done a lot of it to get where he was. So he lay there and thought about something else while his master pounded him into the bed.

“But this sport only satisfied his master briefly. He knew he wasn’t getting through to the young lieutenant yet, and he was fond of reaching way down into his subordinates’ souls. He needed tears, a sob, an uncontrollable cry of pleasure or pain to slake his passion for power.

“So he started giving the young lieutenant hints of pleasure, hints that the master was starting to get so attached to him that he couldn’t bear to hurt him anymore.”

He paused, and Bashir held his breath, afraid to break the spell.

“Of course it wasn’t true.” The stark words hung there as water hissed and pattered around them.

“One night the lieutenant was tied to a bed, his wrists bound so tightly his hands were getting numb. His master beat him, then pretended to have a change of heart. He even said ‘I love you,’ and the lieutenant was weak enough to believe it. They made love ardently that night, and the lieutenant made some admissions of his own about his hopes and dreams, about the kinds of things that excited him, the things that meant something to him. That night, and for several nights to come, the master put them all into practice until the lieutenant was his willing slave. Later, the master used every word the slave had said against him.”

“Is that what you wanted to do to me? What Tain did to you?” Bashir whispered.

“I never said it was Tain,” Garak answered sharply. “That’s another story.” Bashir thought he had hopelessly blundered until Garak spoke again. “But ever since that time,” he said slowly, pain written in every word, “trust no longer comes easily to... to the young lieutenant, who is young no longer.”

Garak stood and turned the water off. “You are free to go, doctor,” he said, taking two towels from a rack and giving Bashir one. Bashir rubbed his head vigorously and then wrapped the towel around his waist and secured it.

“I’m sorry I have to object again, Garak,” Bashir said evenly, “but I’m not leaving.”

Garak finished drying off and folded his towel neatly before laying it over a rack. “This was a mistake, doctor. You were right. Go.”

Bashir tossed his towel to the floor. “That wouldn’t be fair, Garak. After all, a bet is a bet. Could you ever trust me again if I left now?”

The look of amazement Garak gave him nearly made Bashir take a step back. “Do you think I trust you now, doctor? Judging from recent events, I have little reason to do so. And how can you trust me? I haven’t done much in the last few weeks to merit your confidence.”

“Sometimes,” Bashir said carefully, taking a step towards him, “I’ve found that people have to learn to trust others before they can be trustworthy themselves.”

Garak chuckled softly. “It’s a lovely platitude, doctor, but I wouldn’t depend on it to be true.”

Bashir laid a hand on Garak’s ornamented shoulder and traced the ridges with his fingertips. “I’d say it’s worth the risk,” he said, drawing closer, “and at least being with you will keep me out of the holosuite.”

“But there is a genuine risk,” Garak said, taking him by the waist. “We might fail. Failure hasn’t become any easier to bear in my old age.”

“And, then again, we might not,” Bashir murmured close to his ear.

“Risk is a very subjective quality. Speaking of which, I know why you shot me, doctor,” Garak whispered back to him provocatively.

Bashir pulled away to look into his face with surprise. “You do?”

“You thought I was going to leave the holosuite and put your friends in danger just to save myself.”

The doctor sensed a trap, but he answered anyway. “Well, weren’t you?”

“Of course. But I would have saved you, too. You, see, I didn’t think you could do it—conclude the program, I mean. Figure out how to defeat Dr. Noah without getting us both killed. And you thought—rightly, of course, as it turned out—that I had underestimated you.”

Bashir frowned. “You think I shot you because you bruised my ego by underestimating me?”

Garak shook his head, pulling Bashir close to him again. “No. You shot me because I wouldn’t let you do what you thought you needed to do. For me it wasn’t an acceptable risk, but for you it was. To me it meant that you would choose a slight chance of rescuing the others over an excellent chance of saving yourself and me. And the fact that you succeeded raises my opinion of your intelligence, but it doesn’t really change my opinion that you took an alarming risk with our lives.”

“I’m sorry, Garak,” Bashir said wearily, putting his arms around the tailor, “but to tell you the truth I can’t say I’d do things any differently if I had them to do over again. I know I made the only choice I could. There’s nothing I can do to make it up to you.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that.” Garak placed his lips deliberately on Bashir’s neck and kissed a bit of flesh, sucking it between his teeth. “There. Now you have a mark, too. Right in the same place.”

Bashir grinned at him with sudden comprehension. “That makes us even,” he said slowly.

“Not quite,” Garak said, running his hands up and down Bashir’s long body, “but since you’ve decided to remain my guest for the next twenty-four hours, perhaps we’ll discover some other ways to help me forgive you.”      


End file.
